


Infernal Memory

by buckybleeds



Series: Alphabet Soup [11]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Choking, Cock & Ball Torture, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Electrocution, Elevator Trash, Gang Rape, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:07:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24685843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckybleeds/pseuds/buckybleeds
Summary: Another entry in the classic HTP genre of "yeah but what if Steve *didn't* win the fight in the elevator."
Relationships: Hydra Agents/Steve Rogers
Series: Alphabet Soup [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1390954
Comments: 10
Kudos: 86





	Infernal Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Dead Dove! Gang Rape! Hydra Trash Party! 
> 
> A warnings, you has them. 
> 
> Read at your own discretion. 
> 
> Eternal and Effusive thanks to **@theletterelle** for help beta-ing this production.
> 
> Also I'm pretty sure this is the fic that puts me at over 100K words on Ao3 so 🎉🎉🎉

This wasn't real. Couldn't be real. Wasn't real. Wasn't happening. 

It wasn't -

***

He'd pushed Brock and Jack behind him when the fight started. He'd put them where he could keep them safe, where they could have his back.

He was pretty sure that Rumlow got the first magcuff on him but he was positive that it was Rollins who dug the stun baton into his spine and let loose. 

The fight was over fast after that. 

***

In the corner of the elevator, his arms cuffed above his head and his calves bound to his thick thighs with a couple of hastily repurposed belts, Rogers looked like a hunting trophy and it was open season on his ass. 

"C'mon, Rumlow," Murphy whined as Brock sliced into the thick material of the stealth suit, "you've already had him, let someone else go first."

Rogers growled and yanked at the cuffs but he couldn't get any leverage with his legs strapped up. He looked stupid and helpless when he struggled, like some blonde bimbo tied to the mast in an old pirate movie. 

"I'm not fucking your sloppy seconds, Murphy, wait your fucking turn," and Rogers choked at that, pale skin going blotchy red while Brock peeled the shredded uniform away from his torso.

"You know I'm going to kill you for this, right?" Rogers had apparently decided to use the Captain America voice to intimidate them since scrabbling at the floor with his knees to try to keep the weight off his wrists wasn't exactly a power stance.

"Whatever you need to tell yourself to get through the day, sweetheart," Brock said, running a hand from Rogers' heaving chest to the sharp jut of his hipbone. He was so pretty, so perfect and clean-cut and righteous. Brock always loved having his hands on or in Rogers, tainting him.

"Can't wait to see you dripping, princess. How long do you think it's gonna take for us to open that tight ass 'till you can't keep the jizz from running down your legs, honey?"

Rogers scowled for half a second before jackknifing his bound body, using the magnets to brace his arms and shoulders, pulling himself up like a gymnast as he kicked out at Brock with his doubled legs, landing a knees-first hit to the older man's ribs that sent him tumbling into the men behind him and momentarily scattering them like bowling pins. Rumlow gasped in a breath that left a lightning-bolt of pain shooting down the side where he'd taken the hit.

The stubborn, tied-up, locked-down, _useless cunt_ of a supersoldier had broken at least two of Brock's ribs.

He groaned and grabbed at Jack, using the larger man to pull himself upright. He yanked the stun baton out of Jack's hand and whirled to face Rogers as fast as his screaming side would allow him to.

Cap was trying. You had to give the bastard that much - outnumbered and wrapped up like a Christmas present and he was still gonna fight back while he still had some fight in him.

Time to take care of that a little.

Brock stayed out of knee-kicking range and extended his arm to tap the active stun baton against the vulnerable target of Rogers' exposed prick.

The electricity made a loud, awful snapping noise and Rogers choked out an agonized yelp, cringing away from the weapon. Brock stepped in closer and thumbed the switch to increase the voltage; he jabbed the baton down until it made contact with Rogers' sack and zapped him again.

He counted to five in his head, then let go of the trigger.

Jack put a hand on Brock's shoulder before he could shove the baton into Rogers' whimpering mouth.

"Murphy, Blackwell," Jack said, "get over here and keep Cap busy for a minute."

The younger agents darted forward while Jack got a shoulder under Brock's arm on his uninjured side.

"No, wait, godda-" Rogers gritted out before the snapping sounds started up again and the elevator filled with the smells of sweat and ozone and burned flesh.

***

His ears were ringing and his mouth tasted like iron and he could feel distant tugging on his legs and yanking at his shoulders that should have felt important, should have worried him, he'd worry in a minute, right now he just had to keep breathing -

***

Stern pulled out his cellphone and snapped a few photos, whistling appreciatively. Jack kept quiet, but agreed with the sentiment.

They had taken turns teaching Rogers the error of his ways, zapping and burning him with the batons until his eyes were shocky and unfocused. He looked pretty and broken, his mouth hanging open to pant against the pain and his sweaty blonde hair hanging low over his eyes. Murphy had been the one to figure out how to keep him from kicking out again while he was still zoned-out from going three rounds with the shock sticks. Cap already had a couple belts cinched around his legs to keep him from extending them, two more belts got sacrificed to the greater good. The team worked quickly, two to a leg, and released him long enough to string a belt behind each knee before locking his legs down again, binding the additional restraints to the shield harness still strapped above the remnants of his uniform. He came back to himself slowly and twisted against the new arrangement - on his back, the cuffs over his head but only a foot off the floor, with his knees pinned to his shoulders, trussed up like a turkey and spread open like a whore.

"We should put his shield on him, he'd look like a stuck turtle," Murphy giggled, earning a couple raised eyebrows. "C'mon, we could play a few rounds of Spin the Captain."

Jack rolled his eyes.

"You get points for creativity, but you've still got shit for brains. The cuffs won't stick to the shield." Rogers was a little more together. He had started to look a little relieved. "You can't spin him, just flip a fucking coin for who goes first."

***

This wasn't _real_ , goddamnit, and he couldn't get any _leverage_ to snap the nylon tac belts keeping him strapped down and fucking hell, last week he met Vasquez's _mother_ , this wasn't _fucking_ real -

***

"N- " was as much as they got out of Rogers before that patriotic jaw clenched and bit down on any noises trying to make their unsanctioned way out of his throat. 

"Oh fuuuuck."

Blackwell, on the other hand, had won the coin-toss and wanted to make sure everyone else knew what they were missing.

Jack rolled his eyes. Rogers' ass was as perfect as the rest of him, but a hole was a hole and everyone was gonna get their turn. There was no need to make a production out of it.

Rogers tried to ride it out, pretend like it wasn't killing him as his team stood in a circle over him and watched his comm officer ream him open for the rest of them. He gritted his teeth and screwed up his face; his pale skin got hot and red. He wasn't quite crying but Jack was sure they'd get him there.

"You like that, Cap? Does that feel good?" Blackwell was panting lightly as he fucked into Rogers, getting out of breath but still happy to taunt. He ground in hard and sank lower to growl into the supersoldier's ear. "You take it so easy, baby, makes me think you're a regular little cockslut."

Rogers opened his eyes just to roll them at that.

"You come up with that on your own, tough guy, or does Rumlow coach you all on how to sound like stupid assholes?"

A couple of the guys laughed but the smile dropped off Blackwell's face.

"Better a stupid asshole than a wrecked asshole, Cap," he hissed, popping his Ps and close enough that Rollins could see little flecks of spit hit Rogers' cheek.

It turned out that was too close to get to a pissed-off Captain America, even when he was in four-point restraints.

Whatever happened was over before Jack could really register the action. There was a sound of straining metal rapidly followed by a harsh clang - maybe one of the cuffs pulling momentarily away from the wall - then a noise like tearing canvas and suddenly Blackwell was gibbering and scrambling toward the back of the elevator, his dick still wet and a chunk of his lower lip severed and sitting fat and pink between Rogers' bloodstained teeth.

Three commandos activated their stun batons and Rollins closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose while the smell of burning skin and the sound of half-lucid laughter filled the small space of the elevator car.

The longer STRIKE fiddle-fucked around on the losing end of a fight with a heavily restrained captive the less he was sure who he wanted to come out on top of their little standoff.

***

Okay so it hurt. It hurt and it was real and it wasn't the worst thing that would ever happen to him it was just another group of fucking bullies and maybe it touched a nerve that he thought they'd been his team but he'd already taken two of them out of the running maybe if he was just a little lucky he could -

He could -

He could figure out what he needed to do when he needed to do it, all he needed to do right now was keep breathing and wait for another opening.

***

Nobody wanted to question where Jackson had gotten the ring gag, and nobody wanted to ask why he'd had it in his pocket on a day that was, ostensibly, a normal Wednesday.

But everyone agreed that if he could get the thing in Rogers' mouth he had every right to first dibs on using it.

He didn't bother with finesse or threats; just jammed it against Rogers' teeth so hard it nearly broke them then rammed his knee into the Captain's balls, taking advantage of his gasp of pain to cram the steel ring in further and fasten the leather straps behind his head.

"C'mon, guys, it's not like it takes a lot of technique," he said, chuckling as he wrapped a hand around the back of Rogers' neck and unzipped his pants.

Cap had worked up a glare that could melt paint and tried to twist his head away but couldn't prevent Jackson from straddling his chest and feeding his stiffening cock through the gag. He smoothed his hands down the sides of Rogers' furious face, framing his cheekbones with callused thumbs and running thick fingers through dark blonde hair until his head was cradled and held steady by a firm grip around the back of his skull. Jackson started to rock his hips in little twisting movements, letting the slick friction work him to hardness until he was riding out the spasms of Rogers choking on his cock with every stroke.

"Mouth like yours, Cap, I thought you'd be better at this," Jackson sneered. "Is that all it takes to knock you down? You gonna let this be what kills you?" 

He bucked in hard, shoving in far enough that they all heard the guttural retching as Rogers gagged. 

"If you puke on my dick that just means you go out choking on puke _and_ my dick. Figure out how to take it or say goodbye, sweetheart."

It was impossible to tell if Rogers heard that but after a couple more rattling heaves and a loud, wet swallow his chest stopped jerking and settled into little panting puffs accompanied by the sloshing sound of Jackson fucking shallowly into his throat. 

"There you go, baby, I knew you were good for this, knew this is what your pretty mouth was made for."

***

All that he needed to know was that he could kill them later. 

He would survive this and he'd have feelings about it at some point in the future because if he thought about it right now or paid attention to it right now he'd -

He'd -

He didn't know. 

But he could kill them later, take this out of their skin later. 

Right now he just needed to learn how to live through this without breaking into a million pieces. 

That's all. 

That's all. 

***

Jackson pulled out enough when he came to finish on Rogers' tongue instead of down his throat. 

With his mouth clear he took great, heaving breaths and started to struggle against the cuffs again. 

Rollins eyed the motion and frowned.

"Someone choke him some or get out the batons again, I want his hands behind his back."

Rogers huffed and glared at him but could do nothing else when Vasquez crouched over him and almost delicately placed a hand over his throat, stroking it gently before adding a second hand and framing his Adam's apple with his thumbs.

"C'mon, just shock him, he can hold his breath forever and I don’t want to wait all day," Westphal groaned. 

"Yeah," Vasquez murmured, "how long do you think he can hold his pulse?" 

His hands flexed minutely and the flushed skin under them blanched. 

"How the fuck do you think a sleeper hold works, dumbass?"

Rogers shook his head and strained his shoulders and generally made it obvious how helpless he really was as Vasquez firmed his grip. His face started to turn brick red as he sucked in big, panicked gasps of air that did nothing to keep him from going boneless and limp as Vasquez continued to block the blood from returning to his brain. 

Rogers sagged in the cuffs and Westphal and Murphy stepped in to release them from the elevator walls and connect them together behind his back. Vasquez held him up by his throat until the cuffs were locked then pushed him to the ground, arching Rogers' spine as much as he could against the restraints on his legs and chest. 

He let go of Rogers' neck long enough to fumble his pants open and pull his prick out.

"You know it takes three minutes with no oxygen to cause permanent brain damage to a normal person," Vasquez had spit in his hand and was rubbing it over his cock, "I wonder how long it would take for you."

He grabbed Rogers' ass in one hand, digging his thumb deep into the meat of his cheek to pull it wide open and expose his hole while the other hand guided his dick to rest against the twitching ring of muscle. He thrust in and it punched a shout out of Rogers, who was with it enough to start struggling again.

Vasquez humped into him and leaned forward to put some pressure on his throat with one hand while he viciously grabbed his balls with the other, tearing a liquid whine out of the super soldier.

"Think I could make you stupid like this? Choke you till you didn't have enough brain cells left to care when we use you like a whore," he loosened the hand on Rogers' throat but clamped down harder on his balls. 

"I bet the serum would keep you pretty even if you were too much of a vegetable to wipe your own ass or swallow solid food. I bet you could live a hundred years like that, just a drooling set of holes to use," Rogers whimpered, high and miserable, as Vasquez sped up his thrusts and twisted his sack. 

"You probably couldn't even die on your own like that. Someday we'd just get sick of the sight of you and put you out of your misery. Maybe we wouldn't even bother killing you, we'd just bury you in the snow again and in a thousand years you'd be someone else's problem."

Vasquez let go of Rogers' balls so he could put both hands around his neck again, his hips moving at a frantic pace as Steve bucked underneath him. 

"You wanna be my stupid fucktoy, Cap? You gonna let me choke the brains out of you and make you a wet hole for us?"

Rogers face had gone a dull red again, his eyes were distant and spacey and wouldn't focus as Vasquez's fingers sank deeper into his throat. 

***

He could feel his heart beating thunderously but his vision was a haze and all his other senses came to him through a fog. 

Blood thudded in his ears and there was a distant memory of tearing pain inside of him. 

His mouth was dry and he couldn't breathe even though he could feel air on his tongue.

Beneath his confused senses only one thing stayed clear.

 _I'll kill them all_ , he thought furiously, even as he couldn't remember who or why. 

***

"Jesus fuck, Dave," Jack said when Vasquez pulled his cock, dripping blood and come, out of the shivering super soldier and rose smoothly to his feet. 

The livid finger marks were rapidly fading out of Rogers' skin and his chest was heaving as he tried to catch his breath. 

"Christ, save some for the rest of us," Stern said, dropping down to his knees. 

Rollins took stock. 

Jackson and Vasquez leaned in one corner of the elevator, sated but interested in seeing what happened when Stern activated his shock stick on Cap's bruised balls. 

Murphy, Westphal, and North were having a shoving match to figure out who was next in the pecking order. 

Higgins was on his knees next to Rogers with a cellphone pointed at his ass and a reverent expression on his face. 

Brock was glaring balefully from where he leaned against the glass wall, Blackwell was snivelling around a handkerchief in his mouth. 

It was getting humid in the close air of the elevator, starting to stink with sweat and sex. 

Rollins checked his watch.

They hadn’t even been at it a full hour yet. They had time.

***

He lost time, he lost track of the things they were doing to him, stopped counting the things he could hate himself for later.

It hurt. He hurt. He couldn’t stay focused without going insane so he had to lose focus. Had to let go. It would be crystal clear later. He could hold it up to the light and turn it over in his infernal memory and let himself suck on self-loathing but he didn’t need to be here for this, didn’t need to let it hurt him more than it had to.

***

It was Westphal who was fucking Rogers when he stopped fighting it, and that’s where things went downhill.

If it had been anyone else they probably would have been fine, but Weshphal was the kind of stupid that made a sack of hammers look clever.

Jack saw Cap’s legs go slack and soft, saw the hazy, helpless light cloud his sharp eyes, and relaxed. When Steve crashed he crashed hard - he’d stay tied down and take the two remaining commandos and Rollins without much of a fight and he’d get hauled off to the basement to have a date with the Chair. Jack’s day had just gotten easier, so he turned to Rumlow and started wrapping a compression bandage around his chest. 

Which meant he didn’t see it when Westphal took it upon himself to turn Rogers over and deactivate the magcuffs so that he could rearrange the catatonic supersoldier.

Which Rollins would have stopped in a second if he had seen it, because, dopey and fucked-out or not, Rollins knew from experience that unless Rogers had enough ketamine in him to drop a goddamned elephant he was still a fucking threat. 

So all that Rollins could piece together later was that there was a quiet metallic click followed by a canvassy tearing sound and a world-ending metal clang.

***

Someone was turning him over onto his knees.

Someone was thrusting back inside of him.

Someone was touching his hands.

Someone released his hands.

Steve’s brain stopped cataloguing facts as soon as he felt some give around his wrists and everything he’d been distancing himself from was replaced with a series of automatic actions.

Hands fall forward.

Hands tear the harness off his chest to give him back some of the use of his legs.

Legs lunge forward, tearing the prick out of him only as an afterthought because the forethought is the beautiful, ringing shield only two feet in front of him.

Fingers close on the edge of the shield.

Shield makes a whirlwind of blood.

Twenty seconds later Steve was kneeling in a sticky, spreading puddle and not thinking about how many of the men around him would never get up again because he was too preoccupied with getting the belts off of his legs and the gag out of his mouth.

The belts came off easy; he scrabbled at the gag with shaking fingers for a few seconds before deciding that was a problem he’d worry about when he wasn't this fucking elevator. 

He managed to hold his hands steady enough to grab Rumlow’s ID badge and scan it for an express, no-stops trip to the basement.

It gave him enough time to shuck off Westphal’s cargo pants and tug them on over the tatters of his uniform but not enough time to shatter the skulls of everyone in the little glass and metal cage who was still breathing.

He’d kill them all.

But he’d kill them all later. 

Right now all he had to do was just keep breathing and get to his bike.

That’s all. 


End file.
